


In front of a grey sky

by the_world_only_began_today



Series: Thousand Words, Several Stories. [1]
Category: Smosh
Genre: Fluff, Ianthony - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:04:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_world_only_began_today/pseuds/the_world_only_began_today
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Hecox is trying to pack his things up because he is moving houses.<br/>[Un]fortunately, he is distracted by long-forgotten memories and Anthony Padilla.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In front of a grey sky

Ian has the tendency to become poetic when he’s drunk.

Being sober for Ian means to be sober in the way he acts, the way people conceive him and what he wants them to see of himself. When he is drunk, Ian is poetic, because what more beautiful is there than art that exists independently from its admirer?

Today is the day he starts packing up his stuff once and for all, stashing away his memories of this time here, so that he can finally leave this house. 

There are half filled boxes everywhere and one completely emptied wine bottle lying on his bed next to him, dripping on his sheets and leaving drops that look like blood stains. The sun has been hiding for a week now and it is cold in a way unfamiliar to California.

Ian does not care for outside, though. There is too much to romanticize inside.

He has found an old homework planner from seventh grade and there are lost photographs, tickets and post-it notes in there, from a different lifetime, untouched and long-forgotten. He leafs through the pages and his thumb brushes, slightly sticky, against the yellow pages.

Memories burst open and reveal thoughts, actions and smells of a long forgotten time (“Anthony, can I use your phone to call my mom?”/the crunch under his running shoes/ the shampoo he always used).

His luggage is set in the corner of a room and Ian sways over, ignoring the fact that he really should continue packing, and instead opens his suitcase and digs out, from under all other clothes, an old and horribly itchy cable knit sweater that he once got from his grandma and that his mother had insisted on him wearing every Christmas dinner. 

It’s still as horrible, but he is drunk and everything has a sense.

Rain starts dripping outside and Ian lies on the floor, staring outside into the sky and occasionally scratching his neck.

He doesn’t stand up when he hears the doorbell ring, because he knows who it is. Ian is an expert in recognizing the people by the way they press the doorbell.

Anthony is standing in the door and he swears under his breath when he sees the nearly empty boxes and the pile of clothes Ian is lying in.

“What do you think you are doing, Ian?”

Ian is reminded of that slightly exasperated tone in his grandma’s voice when his grandparents used to quarrel over who should get the mail. Anthony crouches down and he picks up a lonely Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sock:

“Weren’t you supposed to pack, because you know, there happens to be a mover appearing here tomorrow that is supposed to be filled with all your stuff?”

Ian shrugs and smiles. The rain is getting stronger, Ian loves the sound of its drops on the roof. Anthony sighs and looks at Ian, and just the way it was with his Grandma, an unwillingly fond smile appears in the corner of his mouth.

“You are an idiot.”

His hand runs over Ian’s forehead and sweeps his hair away.

“And you look beautiful in front of a grey sky.”

Ian remarks and takes pleasure in the surprised rise of Anthony’s eyebrows, because Ian rarely hands out compliments, but when he does, they are important. Anthony lies down next to him, his head resting on Ian’s favourite pair of jeans, and he interlocks their fingers. 

They can hear Ian’s neighbour from upstairs noisily dragging his chair across the floor. A small spider lazily crawls out from behind his desk lamp and Ian still smiles.

There is a special kind of beauty to this.

Anthony’s cheeks are red from the wind outside and Ian pokes them with his index finger. Brown eyes crinkle when he smiles and when Ian pulls him closer. They kiss, not lazily, but without any intent.

“You are drunk”

Anthony remarks, scrunching his nose, because he detests red wine.

“And you look beautiful in front of a grey sky.”

Ian repeats, not without pride. His alarm clock ticks loudly while they lie there, firstly silent and then in a bubble of whispers of no importance-

[“Did you know it’s so cold outside that the pool in the park was frozen this morning?”

“You’ll get a cold and die because of pneumonia if you keep on jogging outside at this time of the year.”

“Do you have my blue jumper? I couldn’t find it when I packed my stuff.”

“We should really continue packing.”]

-and time slowly flows, drains, like the rain outside, in the sewer. Anthony has only gotten up to go to the kitchen and bring the bar of chocolate that Ian keeps in his not-so-secret-stash. The wine stains on his bedsheets match the chocolate ones on his clothes.

Ian tries to count the freckles on Anthony’s nose, but keeps getting stuck on watching his lips instead which stretch into a smile every now and then.

It sounds as if the neighbour upstairs invited a whole bunch of elephants to pogo stick with him, but he is just doing his zumba routine, as Ian assures.

Ian picks up the old homework book and lets Anthony peep inside of it and they laugh over unflattering and really immature doodles, remember the teachers they both loathed and the spare minutes during the day when they would meet up to exchange Pokémon cards and take the school bus together.

Ian flicks on the light as it slowly gets darker and darker and they halfheartedly throw some things into the cartons.

In the end, they lie on Ian’s bed and Anthony is once again playing with Ian’s hair.

“I’m setting an alarm clock so we have enough time tomorrow to pack up your shit.”

He mumbles, tiredly, and Ian nods.

The rain continues.

He traces Anthony’s cheekbones with his thumb, like the old notebook they hold countless memories.

“You look beautiful in front of anything, you idiot.”

Anthony whispers, eyes slowly shutting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading.  
> This is just an experiment where I challenged myself to use exactly 1000 words.  
> I was inspired by this http://promptsgalore.tumblr.com/post/105709470926/write-something-that-includes-the-following prompt on Tumblr and just went on from there.  
> This is my debut to this website and I'll upload the beginning of a story tomorrow.  
> Lots of love, Lucy.


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